


Truce

by execute



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cold War, Espionage, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of Underage, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Self-Indulgent, Spies, Threesome, World War 3, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 07:54:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19044322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/execute/pseuds/execute
Summary: Hey, it's great to finally be free of all the government entities breathing down his neck, but there's an issue with Henry Colbridge's new partners in crime--or anti-crime, let's say: they're attractive. Damn attractive. And it doesn't help that they're in a relationship with each other. Colbridge tries to leave well-enough alone, he really does, but Johann and Jack aren't stupid. They also like him more than he thinks they do.Basically I wrote this years ago but never finished it because I'm a whackjob. Now, I've just finished it and I thought it turned out nice.





	Truce

            Skurowitz sank heavily into the chair and swirled the water in his glass as if it were fine wine. His eyes were distant, unfocused, and silence stretched out like a long road between the two men.

Colbridge didn’t want to bring it up. It wasn’t a casual type of conversation; how could he mention the nightly moans and early morning kisses of his “roommates?” Better yet, how could he approach the topic in a way that wouldn’t offend either? The whole prospect was like goading two wild beasts to attack and hoping they wouldn’t. Colbridge knew well enough the simple things that set Johann off. Skurowitz was a wild card in his own right. He wasn’t a stoic machine like Johann. He was more like a fire someone just kept adding fuel to at different times for little reason. But did Colbridge think it a good idea to anger either of them? No, no he didn’t.

He took a swig of his own drink. His _was_ alcohol; he just couldn’t help himself. Mission be damned. For the first time in his career, his job was parked at the wayside, far from where it should have been. Colbridge resented himself for that. He resented Skurowitz and Johann more, though, because they were the reasons his head was far off and clouded like some primary school kid high on sugar. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t ignore. He couldn’t sleep. And so each day was little more than a tentative continuation of the last, a fever dream he wasn’t able to cure. Why? His sickness was inside of him and outside of him, ever present, beyond his control.

Sitting there, tongue in knots, Colbridge admitted to himself that he _wanted_. Oh, how he wanted! The uncomfortableness ushered in by the cover of darkness—and that yearning, deep, hot yearning at how Johann looked at Skurowitz as if he were his Adonis, his god—that, all of it was just masking his own want. Colbridge had never dwelled much on how empty his life was when he was alone; this aloneness wasn’t a work aloneness, for Colbridge never had been a good partner in the field. This was different, even, than a domestic aloneness. Colbridge had handled that ever since he turned 18. This was something different. It made him feel less than deserving of Johann’s blue-eyed stares and Skurowitz’s thin, creased smiles. And yet it made him want, gave him desire, deep as the ocean and as ever present as his bones.

With one swift movement, Colbridge downed the amber liquid in his glass. He growled low in his throat at the burning aftertaste. When he acquiesced that he couldn’t spend the entire night staring at his shoes and looked up, Skurowitz was watching him.

Colbridge raised the glass. “Strong stuff.” It clinked, loud and hollow, as he set it on the table.

Skurowitz’s silence was like his face, stoic, strong. The angles were impressive. He was some ancient, carved stone monolith, a dwelling, perhaps, for an old god of death: his skin was marble, his brows ledges for the offerings of fearful people. Skurowitz had a cavernous darkness about his eyes: in them, in their depths, and around them, always there. He had little canyons of shadow, tiny wrinkles that bespoke of patience and pain. There were other things, too, things that were not so easily named. Colbridge might not have been a field agent, but he’d seen that look before, the one men get after torture, giving and receiving. It was the same as a war medal, not quite good, not quite evil, but a little of both. He knew how Skurowitz had earned it, but he also knew the circumstances were too grey to sort into categories. And, right now, rather than being horrifying, the deepness of Skurowitz’s eyes elicited nothing other than a bloom of heat in Colbridge’s stomach. The fear which filled him came not from the knowledge of the things the other man had done, but the overwhelming dread that Colbridge might be falling in love.

“It looks that way, dunnit? Your face is all flushed.”

Shit. Colbridge dropped his head back down to his chest. He heard Skurowitz move but didn’t care to glance up. He heard a swallow and knew he’d taken a drink—water. How ironic it was when the first time Colbridge had met him, the man was drunk in a bunker, the handler of the infamous Stasi John, rambling about missing nuclear scientists. And it was all an act, all for a mission. Now, here they were again, and the tables had turned, the clocks reset. Colbridge still felt the apprehension of Skurowitz’s presence the same as back then, but now for a very different reason.

“Henry?”

“Yes,”

“We need to talk. You and me. And Johann should join us when he gets back. We all need to talk.”

Despite his better judgement, despite knowing how dumb it would sound, Colbridge replied (and choked on it): “What about?”

Skurowitz wasn’t a man to laugh, and yet he did then. It was rich and thick and slow like his almost-Southern accent. It was American, pure as the ringing of their damned Liberty Bell, but like that artifact, there was a crack in the laughter’s innocence. There was an extra bit of cold.

“Come on, I even did the courtesy of bringing it up myself so you wouldn’t have to. I’m volunteering to talk about it. You shouldn’t play dumb like that.”

Colbridge finally looked up to meet Skurowitz’s eyes, great big amber things that Colbridge could get drunk on if he wasn’t careful. Maybe it was the already present alcohol sloshing around in his stomach, but he wondered if it might not be such a bad idea to let himself go, just a little bit.

“I knew your relationship was… odd ever since I first met you two,” he started, going slowly, treading carefully on a treacherous road of words. “And after you dropped the act I told myself that had just been part of it. I guess it was easier to understand that way.”

Skurowitz nodded. “Love is a very hard thing to understand. That’s why people avoid it.”

Eyes still connected, Colbridge bristled at the sagely advice because it was all too true.

“So,” he cleared his throat. “You love Johann?”

“More than anything.” Skurowitz replied. The honesty in his eyes was electrifying, startling. He seemed to notice the sudden intensity because he dropped Colbridge’s gaze for a second and chuckled. “That sounds so dramatic, doesn’t it? Hell, I guess it can be. We met in a pretty dramatic way.”

“How?”

“Well, I never told you, but that nickname I used for him, _Stasi John_? Yeah, that’s the truth. We met when I was in East Berlin. I was, well, causing some trouble for the greater good. You know how it is. He was following me. I knew it. I cornered him, he pegged me against a wall. Espionage stuff, typical. Sometimes you make a mistake. I was going to kill him, I really was. But when we were in that alleyway, he looked so young and I saw the fear in his eyes. He knew I was dangerous. I knew he wanted out. So, we struck a deal, got it approved. When I completed my mission, which had a couple addons attached after recruiting him, Johann and I were extracted.”

“Just like that?”

“For the most part. There were more technicalities that needed to be done, but I won’t go into those. Can’t, really, since they’re classified information. But for the most part yes, it happened just like that.”

Skurowitz scratched his chin and stared off into the distant unknown. To the future or the past—Colbridge couldn’t tell. The clock ticked on the wall, the noise hypnotizing. Colbridge didn’t dwell on his next words before he spoke them.

“When did you two—”

“Start fucking? That’s what you want to know, right?”

Taken aback at the hostility in the question and the possible outcomes of summoning that beast, Colbridge swallowed and merely nodded. Instead of screaming or stabbing him (which Colbridge had to admit, wouldn’t be unwarranted), Skurowitz settled further back in his chair and sighed a long sigh.

“There’s a difference, you know? A difference between fucking and having sex. And there’s a difference between having sex and making love. These differences wouldn’t have occurred to you, I’m sure.”

“You… it’s not like that. I’m, well, curious. A bit scandalized, to put it honestly, but it’s just all so… unexpected.”

“Perhaps to you, it is. But think of it this way: Johann and I are of the same stock. We’re spies, murderers, war criminals. We’re deadly and broken. I can’t picture myself waking up in bed with a pretty girl, her hair done up in rollers, pink lips and wrinkled nightie. Can you see me kissing a wife and children goodbye knowing I’m going to kill someone in a few hours? I know some who can, and I’m sure you do too. But I’m not talking about them, I’m talking about me. And can you see me living that life?”

Colbridge hesitated before answering. He _had_ thought of it like that, before, and the thoughts were as unexplainable then as now. He’d tried to apply that same logic to himself (and was quite terrified when it stuck). He wasn’t a family man—he wasn’t that kind of “stock.” Sure, he could love, but love was dangerous. And he knew it was even more dangerous for men like Johann and Skurowitz. Did it make sense? Yes, completely. Because it made sense for him as well.

“No, I can’t picture that for you.”

Skurowitz hummed in agreement. “You have a thousand objections, I’m sure.”

Colbridge didn’t reply. Skurowitz continued.

“Just know that whatever immorality you see isn’t immorality to us. How can you rationalize the righteousness of killing one man yet condemn me for loving another?”

“I’m not.” Colbridge stated. “I’m not condemning you.” And that was the truth.

“Then what are you doing?”

There was the question, that dreaded question. Colbridge swallowed. He couldn’t meet Skurowitz’s eyes. They were too beautiful, too tempting. If he looked there, he might speak, might spill everything, so instead Colbridge looked at the clock. He counted out the unceasing moments of immeasurable time.

“Henry. We’re too far beyond petty secrets.”

“What if it’s not petty? What if it’s a detriment?”

“I’ve handled secrets that will bring down governments if anyone found out. Don’t worry about detriment.”

“But what if it’s a detriment to us?”

Skurowitz licked his lips. His thin brows knit together. His fingers tapped gently on his thigh to the rhythm of the clock on the wall. Inescapable. It was all inescapable.

“I’ve… perhaps I’ve been confused, Jack.” Colbridge tried not to say his name like a prayer. “You and Johann, and I…”

“You’re jealous.” Skurowitz surmised. The announcement was devoid of all emotion. Colbridge grew hot and cold all at once.

“In a way, yes I think I am. But, I can’t say. I can’t tell. It’s all muddled in my head. Perhaps jealousy is the way to describe it but it’s complicated.”

Skurowitz’s gaze bored holes into Colbridge’s skin.

“Do you think you’re a homosexual?”

It was the blunt normalcy of the way Skurowitz asked the question which made Colbridge jump. Even so, the tightness that had been present in Skurowitz’s face before was gone now, replaced with a strange amusement. The heat in Colbridge’s belly grew hotter. He was at a loss for words.

“Well,” Skurowitz divined, standing like a king from his throne, gliding over the floor like an eagle from its nest. He stopped before Colbridge’s chair. The blood rushing in Colbridge’s ears was a torrent, a maelstrom, and it carried him away. “There’s a way to find out.”

Colbridge thought time might have slowed like in the movies, but it didn’t. One moment his eyes were open, his mouth flattened to a straight, lost line, and the next lips were upon his own. It took an eternity for him to respond. He wanted to drown in that feeling of Skurowitz’s mouth pressed against his; if he could remain like that forever, he would. But then there was a weight on his lap, a hand probing around his waist, and Colbridge remembered a kiss takes two. He leaned in. He opened his mouth and Skurowitz was there, tasting him. It was far more intimate and gentle in nature than smoky hotel rooms and sad, working women. Colbridge wasn’t blind nor was he inexperienced, but this, well, was utterly new. Before they broke apart to breathe, Skurowitz drug his teeth across the plumpness of Colbridge’s lower lip; Colbridge moaned. He arched into Skurowitz’s retreat and he learned, by the tenseness of the hands gripping the flesh around his hips, he had complicated things more than he ever dreamed possible.

Spit glistened on Skurowitz’s reddened lips. It reflected the lowlights of the hotel, three men living lives shrouded in night. He breathed a bit heavy while Colbridge gulped air. He slid off the Englishman’s lap and ran a hand through his hair.

“We… should wait for Johann,” were the words Skurowitz mumbled, and Colbridge didn’t dare ask what exactly they should wait _for._ Skurowitz didn't elaborate but twisted and glared at the clock, cooing out seconds and minutes and years as always. It didn’t protest the scene which had played out before it; Colbridge thought he might be going insane when he was surprised the world didn’t crumple in at the seams.

The chair felt little more than a prison and vacant without those fleeting moments of occupying Skurowitz’s weight as well as Colbridge’s own. Yet Colbridge stayed, because there was nowhere else to go and because (if it was madness he didn’t care) he didn't want to leave.

Skurowitz began pacing. It wasn’t in his usual habit. Skurowitz’s tells were finger taps or a wrinkling of his nose, a frigid sneer. Johann’s was absolute calm like a lake of glass where you couldn’t see the bottom. Together, they were all but silent, moving with and around each other from familiarity and expertise.

“How long?” Colbridge blurted. His own voice surprised him.

“How long what?”

“Since you and Johann met?”

“It was ‘49.” Skurowitz said. Colbridge worried he might not continue, but the question was a distraction, and the clock was maddening, so he did. “In Berlin, like I said. The high end of ‘49. City was still decimated. The war hadn’t really ended then.” He barked out a harsh laugh. “Still hasn’t, really.”

“How old were you?”

“When we met, I was 35.” Skurowitz smirked in the way that was so like him. “Are you asking if I’m an old man?”

“No, not at all. That’s hardly what I meant.” Colbridge sputtered, waving a hand in front of him as if to clear the conversational air. “Just curious. I’m surprised, actually. You’re still very… youthful.” He might have said handsome—he was going to say handsome.

“Youthful? That’s not me. Do you want to know who’s youthful? Johann is the kid in the group.”

“How old is he, then?”

“This year will be his twenty-third birthday.”

Colbridge gaped. It was a revelation. Aghast, confused, he asked: “You met him when he was sixteen?”

“Yes.” was all Skurowitz said. He braced for the inevitable next question, but it never came.

“He seems so much older.”

“Killing, death does that to a person. Torture too.” Skurowitz explained. He grumbled something inaudible and eased his hands into his pockets. His shoulders relaxed; he dropped his head back and sighed. “I often wish things could have been different for him. I suppose it’s just that I am so much older I look back and see things as preventable. His hindsight is masked with rage. He, well...” a laugh. “He is young enough to be my son, take that as you will, please, and hate me all the more for it, but I still try to protect him when I can.”

Colbridge couldn’t help it—he laughed. It was at the whole conversation and the confession that something was wrong here, so, so wrong wrapped up in the simplicities of age; Skurowitz was old enough to be Johann’s father, yet they were lovers and it was all rather immoral. But instead than exploiting that and dragging it out into the light, Colbridge finished his dark laugh with a real smile.

“It’s nice that you want to protect him. I don’t think he would take it too well, though.” Colbridge had seen murder before in Johann’s heavy blue eyes. The man—young man—was nothing less than a predator. Perhaps he was not evil, perhaps just molded by circumstance, but Colbridge could not believe Johann did not enjoy the hunt. He did believe Johann liked it when he killed.

“No, he doesn’t.” Skurowitz’s smile grew calmer and Colbridge’s anxiety lessened. “He hates it, really. But he knows I do it out of love.”

“You told him that?”

“Oh yes. I never overstep my bounds, but he does recognize my seniority. He listens to me sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?”

“I’m his lover, not his parent.”

The two men locked eyes in the dim light and began to laugh, again. Skurowitz began first. It was real laughter, not hollow or broken or cold. It may have been spawned by a horrible shared joke, an incestuous innuendo, or the whole raunchiness of the night’s happenings, but it was real laughter. And it was shared by two at-odds parties and it was cherished for its genuineness.

As if on cue, it was then Johann appeared with questionable stains on the hem of his tan trench coat. Skurowitz straightened and his attention became hawkish as he rushed to Johann’s side and brought him in. The door thundered shut when Skurowitz kicked it, too busy with the charge in his arms to bother with propriety. Colbridge leaned forward too, hands planted on his thighs, before he realized he would just get in the way; it wasn’t his position to rush in to help.

Johann didn’t show pain. He didn’t broadcast discomfort. Colbridge saw the gash on his leg before Skurowitz had propped him up on the bed, but had his pants leg not been ripped, had it not been crusted with blood, Johann would have seemed peaceful. His movements were slower and his face haggard from fatigue, but Johann didn’t show pain. He also didn’t allow people to touch him, unless that person was Skurowitz. And judging by the intensity in the man’s eyes, Skurowitz was more than grateful for that fact.

 _“Was ist mit dir passiert?”_ the American asked, his accent perfect to a cutting tip.

_“Noch nichts.”_

Johann sucked in a breath at Skurowitz’s probing touches—both Colbridge and Skurowitz tensed.

_“Hose aus!”_

Colbridge didn’t need to understand the language to realize what was happening. Johann fumbled and finally succeeded undoing his belt buckle and Skurowitz shed him of his soiled coat. Colbridge watched, keenly aware that he should look away. But his eyes lingered, and he realized he didn’t _want_ to look away.

Injuries weren’t sexual. The blood, of course, was off-putting. Still, Colbridge watched with sick fascination the gentle touches Skurowitz used to slide Johann out of his pants. It was because of the wound—that much was true, but it was the contrast of Skurowitz’s swarthier skin on Johann’s alabaster legs and the softness there which made the scene erotic. Colbridge hated himself for interpreting it that way. Skurowitz’s ministrations were merely the result of Johann’s injuries, but knowing that, had there not been any harm Skurowitz would have done the same type of thing sooner or later set his blood on fire—fire that had nothing to do with anger. Self-loathing mixed with the alcohol and the turmoil of his brain and stomach finally allowed him to turn away.

Colbridge had thought a lot about why Skurowitz was attractive to him. Sure, it was his outward appearance, but it was more his dark humor and stubborn resilience which raised attraction to enduring allure. And his voice. His voice was golden—American yes, Southern, yes. While it was strange it was also exotic and his words reminded Colbridge of heat, fields of heat, late afternoon in the late summer. The reasons he was attracted to Skurowitz were normal (despite the agent’s sex), a combination of looks and personality.

On the bed, Johann gave a little whine as Skurowitz tended to his cut.

The reasons Colbridge was attracted to Johann were fewer, but entirely more complex. It started with his distantness. It began in his glacial eyes. On that first (false) mission Colbridge realized Johann was little less than human—or a little more, depending on how you viewed him. He was, it seemed, untouchable in more ways than one. He responded but did not react. He understood without feeling. If he did feel, he did so without showing. He was capable, calculated, and deadly. It was the mystery of him which proved so enticing.

And now, spread half naked on a bed a way before him, Colbridge also added that the young man was phenomenally beautiful. Johann’s beauty lay in his exactness. His features were symmetrical, his muscles chiseled, light and shadows falling across him in artistic perfection. He was the equivalent of a living, walking marble statue, some ancient god of lust. Pale skin, light hair, strong jaw: he was the opposite of Skurowitz and the epitome of classical Teutonic beauty. Otherworldly, Johann was captivating because of his looks.

And Colbridge didn’t want him to be. He didn’t want Skurowitz to be charming. He didn’t want to feel so strongly about the two men he’d become entangled with. He still did, regardless.

Colbridge excused himself from the room with a hushed good night. Neither Skurowitz nor Johann paid him any attention when he stood and exited. He left his empty glass on the end table, sure it would be there in the morning.

The narrow hall which ran from the entry and living space was cold, cold in an impartial, hollow way. The cold was a song and it sang that life was lacking. How could it not be, so far from home? Colbridge wasn’t a family man; his profession spoke of that more than personal testimony ever would. But being alone in a place he knew was tolerable; being alone in a foreign place was more painful than he ever thought it could be. Colbridge was lonely. He’d been lonely for a long while. He’d dealt with it. But never had it felt as bad as it did when Colbridge retired to his room and left Johann and Jack to warm each other's beds.

 

In the morning, Colbridge woke early and irritable and hungry. He also woke with another need, more carnal even than hunger, which he attended in the shower with his fist in his mouth.

Once presentable, he prepared breakfast. It was his unwritten duty, usually, and he knew it would be doubly appreciated with Johann’s condition. He scrounged up eggs and onions and potatoes and knew he could do something with that.

Each man in the three-man “espionage force” possessed unusual talents, ones which never seemed to fit them. One of Colbridge’s more appreciated skills was his talent in the kitchen. Even Johann, who had been apprehensive to good food after so many years of subsistence meals, had finally given in. He seemed to enjoy Colbridge’s finesse now, if a lack of distrustful glaring could be equated to enjoyment. Skurowitz praised him, which was a bit unnecessary considering he could cook as well. His recipes were limited to heavy, American adapted meals, but that also meant he could create something edible out of almost anything, which was more useful than Colbridge would have thought a few months ago.

The eggs were frying in the skillet and Colbridge was chopping onions when Skurowitz eased around the corner and surprised him. He didn’t jump, at least, but the tension flared again when he saw the dark rings of fatigue under Skurowitz’s eyes.

“I need a towel.” He said, leaning against the counter with his palms splayed on the cool countertop. Colbridge nodded at the row of drawers next to him.

“There should be something in there. Second from the bottom.”

“Should be?”

“Supplies.” Colbridge shrugged. “I have no idea what Svetlana thought we would need but apparently her ideas of living are rather sparse.”

Skurowitz laughed at that but it was nowhere near the same as last night. “I think if the Soviets finally exiled Svetlana to Siberia they’d be doing her a favor.”

Colbridge chuckled in agreement and Skurowitz slid around the counter and kneeled to search through the drawer. Colbridge returned his gaze to the onions, which was a feat. Skurowitz was close enough to touch, bare chested, and his hair, mussed from sleep, sprung into curls at the nape of his neck. He appeared much younger when less put together, when illuminated by grey morning light.

“Any luck?” Colbridge asked. He added the chopped onions to the eggs and he hoped in vain the sizzle would drown out his memory of the man next to him. It didn’t, of course. Skurowitz grunted a reply and stood. He nudged the drawer closed with his toes.

“I think this will do.” He held up an old, stained rag. It once might have been a pink color, something akin to coral, but years had bleached away the dye and it looked sad, a ghost of a former time. It was comical how Skurowitz held it out like some treasure, a triumph of conquest. Colbridge stared at him a little too long.

“What are you going to do with that?” He asked to the almost-done eggs.

“Johann’s hot. I thought I’d wet a rag for him. Which means…” Skurowitz placed his hands on Colbridge’s hips and scooted behind him. He finished his thought bent over the sink. “...excuse me.”

The touch was as unexpected as a hurricane in the desert. Colbridge tensed and straightened and sucked in a breath and held it even when Skurowitz was at his side, dipping the rag into the water. His gaze was fixed to the eggs and he decided, lest he burn them, he wouldn’t respond. Instead he slid the skillet off the burner and transferred the food to a plate, twisting around to set it on the counter. He might have been able to hold his tongue except that Skurowitz did it again, this time with his hands freezing cold from the water.

“What are you doing?”

Rag wrung between his hands, Skurowitz smiled up at Colbridge with a tilt of his chin.

“Getting a rag for Johann.”

“You’re not the type of man to play silly games.”

“Oh? I’m not, am I? Are you presuming to know what kind of man I _am_?”

Colbridge bit the inside of his cheek and frowned. “Don’t torture me with this.”

“Who said I was torturing you with it? You came to me genuinely worried and I showed you your worries were warranted. But I never said they’d go unaddressed.”

“I… don’t know what you mean.”

Skurowitz’s smile grew wider. He inclined his head.

“Hold on. Let me give this to Johann and I’ll be right back.”

As quickly and stealthily as he arrived, he was gone. Colbridge mused over his words, hoping, but not daring to admit it. Steam rose from the pile of eggs and he watched it, aware that he was hardly hungry anymore.

“So.” Skurowitz began, appearing without a sound. “Me or Johann?”

“W-what?”

“You know exactly what I mean. Me or Johann?”

The worst part of entertaining that question was Skurowitz was right—Colbridge knew what he meant. And he’d asked himself the same thing night after night. He never reached a satisfactory conclusion.

Perhaps it was the idiotic assertion that this must be a dream, but Colbridge decided to respond to the insanity in kind.

“Both,” he said, regretful right after the word left his lips.

Skurowitz raised his eyebrows but the prickly smile never vanished; his strange humor endured.

“Wow. Didn’t think I’d get that lucky.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if it was just me, that would mean I’d have to divide my time between you and Johann, which I really didn’t want to do. If it was just Johann, I’d have to share. And I really hate sharing things.” Skurowitz explained. He crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. “Lucky for me you’re a man of great taste.”

“You’re actually proposing this?” Colbridge stammered, voice hushed. He furrowed his brow and focused on the countertop; his fingers curled tight around the edge.

“If I wasn’t I wouldn’t be here. You said it yourself: I’m not one to play silly little games. Especially with something as promising as this.”

“Promising?” Colbridge echoed. His voice was duller, hollow where Skurowitz’s was a sharp ring. “I’m not understanding this.”

“Oh, come on, Henry! You’re a smart man! I’m proposing we all sleep together. You and me and Johann. All of us, in a bed, pleasuring one another.”

Colbridge couldn’t help it—he blushed from his neck to the tips of his ears. Skurowitz’s smile widened.

“You... god. I-I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

“Nope.” Skurowitz assured. “Some dreams can come true.”

Colbridge took a moment to steady his breathing. His mind was at a loss so he replied: “That’s very cliché.”

“You’re the one who brought dreams into this, hun.”

“Oh, please don’t call me that.”

“You’re not a pet name person? Even Johann lets me decorate him with my little _endearments_.”

“H-he does?” Colbridge stammered, having a difficult time imagining Johann responding to “sweetheart” or “dearest.”

“He’s _mein Schatz._ He’s also my little _Liebschen,_ my _Liebe._ Sometimes, when I’m feeling extremely cliché, I’ll tell him he’s _mein Leben._ ”

Throughout Skurowitz’s explanation, Colbridge massaged his eyes. He had a headache threatening to draw over him like a thundercloud and he had the strangest notion that he might faint—and wake up to find this really was one giant, fucked up dream.

“You know I don’t speak German.”

“That’s why it’s funny as hell.”

Much to Colbridge’s surprise, the silence that followed was not uncomfortable. There was camaraderie between his shaky movements and Skurowitz’s arched back. Colbridge was still a little afraid to look up. He thought back to last night when his eyes were glued to his shoes. All of this had happened because he had looked up. So, he may as well, now that he’d done it once. He may as well look up and continue this train wreck.

“Is Johann mad?”

“Why would he be mad?” Skurowitz asked. He creased his brows in a quizzical fashion. The purse of his lips begged Colbridge to kiss him.

“Because, well,” Colbridge met Skurowitz’s eyes. “Aren’t I stealing you away from him?”

“Oh. Nope. Not at all. We’re going to base this all on sharing, alright?”

“Sharing,” Colbridge repeated. Skurowitz reached across the countertop and rested a hand on Colbridge’s arm. His touch was hot but gentle, heavy yet soft.

“I think you think Johann hates you.”

“I, well. He’s never been open to me is all.”

“Johann isn’t open to _anyone_. Even I have to drag stuff out of him.” Skurowitz gave Colbridge’s arm a light squeeze. “But he doesn’t hate you. He actually really likes you.”

“He likes me?”

“Sure does. He likes you more than he’ll ever say probably. But he might show you.”

Colbridge blushed again. He pictured Johann bent over him, lips open and inviting. He imagined the flush of blood against Johann’s alabaster skin and the ripple of muscle on his legs and arms; he imagined those legs wrapped around his waist; he imagined those arms holding him in sleep.

“Ah, now that look, I like on you, Henry.” Skurowitz’s voice dropped to a low rumble and Colbridge was acutely aware of the weight of his hand on his arm.

Was this really happening?

Skurowitz leaned in and brushed his lips across Colbridge’s. It was a delicate movement, more breath and anticipation than contact. Colbridge’s heart pounded just the same. It was Skurowitz’s closeness, the scent of him and the feel of him—it was all of him. Every bit. Every bit which had taunted and hurt and protected and swore. This was natural, wasn’t it? They’d all lived through the unimaginable together, done horrible things together, betrayed their respective nations together, _for_ each other…

Colbridge pulled back, the shock of a sudden, important thought widening his eyes.

He asked, “Does Svetlana know?”

Skurowitz burst into laughter.

 

Two days later, Colbridge found out that Svetlana did indeed know. She’d known of Jack and Johann all along. She was, however, a little surprised when Skurowitz told her of the most recent development.

It was Sunday and she found Colbridge in the kitchen. At her arrival, he did jump.

“Ah, if it not my unfortunate Englishman.”

“S-Svetlana?” Colbridge almost dropped the pan. The woman’s laughter was light and sharp like windchimes or a shattering of glass. She leaned against the counter and folded her arms over her chest.

“Yes?”

“Sorry, you startled me.”

“My walking too silent for you?”

“No, just, no. Sorry. I’ve, I’m a little—”

“Jumpy lately?”

“I suppose, yes, you could say that.”

“I wonder why,” Svetlana mused, and Colbridge did not miss the slight accusatory note in her voice. She pushed away from the counter and held out her hands to help. “That looks heavy.”

Svetlana was the only person Colbridge obeyed without question. If she asked him to hand the pan over, he would. He did. He’d known for a long while that Svetlana’s slight frame was only an illusion to hide her strength (where she kept the muscle, he’d never know).

“I have no news,” Svetlana said, hoisting the full pan up and onto the counter. Done, she cracked the lid and closed her eyes to the scent. “Ничего себе!”

“I’m assuming that’s good.”

“Mm, good, Mr. Colbridge. That’s _very_ good.”

“Ahh, well. Good, then. Good.”

Closing the lid but without opening her eyes Svetlana posed, “What is the thing that happened while I was away?”

“A thing, that happened while you were away?” Colbridge echoed. For a moment his confusion was genuine. Then, like a sudden light, he understood. He didn’t want to convey that.

“Something is different around here.” Svetlana continued.

“I haven’t the slightest what you mean.”

“Between you three is something. It was not there before.”

“Between… you mean Jack and Johann and I?” Colbridge asked. Svetlana nodded. “Oh, Johann got hurt. It was, well I’ve never seen him hurt.”

“You haven’t?”

“No, never.”

“I feel it in my bones, мальчик.” Svetlana’s eyelashes fluttered. The blue beneath the fan of red was scathing. “You might see him hurt again.”           

Colbridge had never seen Svetlana angry. He’d heard from Skurowitz what the woman’s wrath entailed. It was, frankly, horrifying. It had killed. It had brought down governments. Colbridge had never seen that side of her, and yet he knew it was there, hiding, perhaps waiting. Anger at something was always waiting.           

At her words, Colbridge froze.           

What would she do? Did she want him to admit the debauchery? Did she want to hear it from his lips, a kind of torture, before she slaughtered him? He didn’t know.           

Did she?           

“Come on, Mr. Colbridge. Just tell me. What is so scary about telling me?”           

 _Because you might murder me where I stand,_ Colbridge thought, but he shook it away. Instead, he said, “I’m just a little confused as to what you mean.”           

“All men are.”           

“Excuse me?”           

“Or they seem to be.” Svetlana rested her hip against the counter. “Johann and Jack’s relationship, the one that you are now fully aware of, it seems, happens under my blessing. What you would not have guessed is their happiness brings a lot of joy to me. I cherish the things I enjoy, if you follow.”

            “Ah, no, no I’m sorry, Svetlana, I—”           

“ _Don’t_ hurt them, or _I_ hurt _you_.”           

When Svetlana had grabbed the kitchen knife is a thing Colbridge will never know. But in that moment, he found it pointed at the tip of his nose. He raised his hands in utter surrender.            “I swear, I swear!”           

“Swear to _what_?”           

“I’ll never hurt them!”           

“Do you promise to care for them, love them as they already love you?”           

Colbridge was left breathless by her words, yet somehow managed to squeak out:            

“I promise!”           

“Regardless of the interests of nations, of entities, of wealthy men and women?”           

“Yes, yes! Regardless!”           

It was pure misfortune which had Skurowitz walk down the stairs at that moment. He looked up, and stopped chewing whatever he was chewing for the moment.           

“Oh, hey Vet,”           

“Good morning, Mister Skurowitz.”           

“Why do you have a knife pointed at one of my partners?”           

“Russian wedding,” is what Johann said from the corner of the room. No one noticed his presence until he made it known—and then they jumped at it.           

“Ah,” Skurowitz said. “That doesn’t help me in the damnedest.”           

“ _Sie hat uns geheiratet. Keine Richter, keine Kirchen.”_

Skurowitz’s eyes widened.            

“This is a lot of responsibility to take on all at once, Vet. I’m not sure I can handle it.” 

Svetlana dropped the knife with an exhasperated sigh.            

“You are old children,” she said. Her mission was the door; she grabbed her coat and flung it on, on her way out. “I will go to get groceries! It is too early for this!”           

Her slam echoed, and even Skurowitz flinched.            

“Ouch,” is what he said. He descended the rest of the stairs and held his hand out toward Johann. “Peanut?”           

“No,”           

“Suit yourself. Henry?”           

“No, thank you.”           

“Svet’s right. It’s too early for this.” Skurowitz’s gaze drifted between Johann and Henry, back and forth. They both held it—there was something electric in his eyes, and both saw it, both knew. “You know what it isn’t too early for? You said Svetlana basically married us, right, Johann?”           

“ _Ja,_ ”            

“Then shouldn’t we have our honeymoon?”           

Of all the protests Colbridge thought might come out of his mouth, “But it’s not night!” was not one of them.           

Johann stood from his chair. Skurowitz smiled at him, and at Henry.           

“It’s night somewhere.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, if you read this, thanks so much! It's just a brainchild of mine and I've had the characters for years. This is my first time posting anything original to AO3, so if you liked it, please let me know! I've been thinking of posting more of my original shit so this is a trial run. <3 <3 <3


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